


How to breathe

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically PWP in which Dean takes care of hypothermic Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Sequel to [Teach me gently](http://archiveofourown.org/works/249238), which will provide a better understanding of the little bit of plot involved.  
> 2\. Title from The xx's Shelter.

  
Fine, Sam will stop apologizing to Dean, but that doesn't mean he agrees with him.

Sam’s sins run deep, and everything that has happened – especially the release of Lucifer – is _his_ fault. But he’s going to get Dean to trust him again, somehow, and so he agrees to no more apologies. Even so, his compliance has less to do with actually giving in to Dean's request and more to do with his lack of energy to continue the conversation.

Sam's getting more and more tired every minute, but he's aware of Dean packing up and putting away the first aid supplies and then returning to begin removing Sam's clothes. Dean kneels down and takes off Sam's boots, then peels away his socks, before he rises to unbutton Sam's flannel overshirt.

"Wha– what are you doing?" Sam asks.

He’s aware that he isn't speaking clearly – which makes sense, moderate hypothermia having set in and clouding his mind – because it's pretty apparent what Dean is doing.

"Your clothes are soaking wet and freezing cold, Sam. We've got to get you out of them."

"Hmm," Sam responds, but he loosens his limbs, lets Dean remove his clothing piece by piece. Dean gets Sam down to his gray boxer briefs, almost black from the frozen dampness.

Sam squirms up the bed, and Dean pulls the covers out from under him then brings them back up. After Sam slides out of his briefs, Dean tucks the blanket in around him.

Sam's curled up tight under the covers of the bed, but that's not enough. He knows that.

He’s fucking hypothermic – both his heart rate and breathing are down, he can barely speak, and the shivering has returned, his body racked by small convulsions – so he isn't surprised when he notices Dean following suit. Sam's own body can't generate enough heat to repair the damage caused by the cold, Dean's body will have to do the work.

Sam lays on his side, heavy lids slitting his eyes, but he watches as Dean strips out of his jeans, using his left leg to kick off the right and then the opposite. After removing his overshirt Dean tightens his fingers in the hem of his black tee, pulls it up and over his head, and throws it on the growing pile of damp, dirty clothes. Last comes Dean's undershirt and then his boxers, his amulet the only thing remaining.

Dean pulls the covers down and slides into the bed beside Sam. Instantly, Sam can feel his warmth, immediately Dean's body begins heating the freezing cold sheets.

Dean doesn't hesitate a second longer, and Sam's glad, just remains curled in on himself as Dean yanks the covers back up and slides closer.

Sam knows his body temperature is in a dangerous place, and Dean’s body heat will help. He knows that Dean needs to get as close as possible, needs to get as much of his skin on Sam's as he can, so Sam rolls over, his back to Dean's chest, and lets Dean pull him in. Dean squeezes even closer, slotting his chest up tight against Sam's back. He pulls his legs up into the same curve as Sam's and pushes them in, their thighs close and Dean's lower legs pressed up to Sam's.

Sam hadn't remembered how well their bodies fit together. They’re pretty much perfect.

But Dean makes the fit even more perfect by throwing one arm back over Sam and bringing his other one up and around, cradling Sam's head.

Sam's finally feeling better, he's been so fucking cold for so damn long, now comforted by the heat seeping into his back.

"Sleep, Sammy," Dean says.

Sam quickly responds, "Can't. Too cold."

It doesn't surprise him when Dean squeezes him even tighter.

A half hour passes and Sam still hasn't fallen asleep, warmer, but not warm enough to let go. He can feel Dean's breath on the back of his neck, a whuff of air as Dean asks, "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"This okay?"

"Yeah," comes Sam's groggy response. "Feels good."

He both hears and feels a sharp inhale from Dean.

"Feels like before," Sam says.

"Before?"

" _Before_ , Dean."

Sam is guilty of a lot of things. He doesn't understand how Dean has forgiven him for all the shit he's done. Sam had completely betrayed Dean, had been doing things behind his back for so long. Sam had released fucking _Lucifer_ from the gates of Hell.

And yet, that's not even the worst of his transgressions.

He knows that things had been good, before this last year, between him and Dean. Dean picked him up from Stanford, and no, he hadn't exactly been willing to get back on the hunting train, but he'd come to terms with it. And slowly they'd rekindled their friendship, rekindled their bond as brothers.

But not the bond they'd shared before Sam had left.

Sam and Dean had become something more than, something _different_ than brothers when Sam was sixteen. They'd had a couple of amazing years. But Sam had thought that he wanted a normal life. He thought he needed normal. And fucking your brother was not normal. So Sam had left.

And he still feels guilty. Still misses Dean.

Sam feels the damp warmth of Dean's lips on the back of his shoulder. As though the mention of _before_ pulled him into Sam, closer.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Feels like before."

Those words, that acknowledgement, feel like permission. Sam presses back more firmly into Dean. When he does, he's met with a half hard cock tight against his ass.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Miss you."

Dean half-groans as he squeezes his arm, pulls Sam even tighter to his chest. At the same time, Dean's dick gives a little excitatory jump, not having too far to go, pressed up so close to Sam. Sam feels it, and meets it.

He feels Dean's arm pulling to roll him over, and he goes with it, lays out on his back as Dean pulls his other arm down from Sam's head to lean up and over.

The look in Dean's eyes is one Sam hasn't seen in far too long. It's a look that he's missed, it's hungry and it's full of love.

"Miss _you_." Dean almost growls the words.

For the first time in over seven years Sam meets Dean's lips with his own, leaning up and in, hard. Kissing the most important person in your life isn't something you forget how to do, though, so really, it's exactly the same as it had always been. Dean's lips are soft but firm, and they mold perfectly to Sam's.

A quick swipe of Dean's tongue between Sam lips and Sam opens wide to meet Dean. The push and pull back and forth drags languidly. There's no need to rush this. They've waited more than seven years, they can wait a little longer, they can draw it out and make it last. And they aren't forgetting that Sam is not up to his full capacity, warmer, but still chilled, heart rate not yet back to normal.

They lay there, bodies pressed tight with Dean's leg between Sam's, simply kissing and running hands over one another, slowly and gently, for what must be close to an hour. Eventually, though, the tension rises and both understand that they need more. Dean rises and slots himself between Sam's legs, Sam brackets him in with his thighs, and Dean begins to push down with his hips.

It's so much, skin on warm skin, and it's everything.

Dean winds his hand in Sam's hair and tilts him up so he can get at Sam's neck, sucks at the tender spot just behind his ear. He wraps his hands around Dean's back, pulling him closer, trying to get him more close than physically possible, and settles on clamping tightly to Dean's shoulders.

Dean's still grinding down, and Sam up to meet him. Sam further tightens his grip on Dean, the sweat slick of Dean's back hard to hold.

"Dean," Sam says on an exhale. "Dean, more."

"Are you sure, Sam? Are you okay?"

"I don't give a fuck if I'm okay, okay? I need you in me. Four years ago."

Dean smiles, but Sam knows that Dean is worried about him, that Dean doesn't want to put more stress on Sam's body than necessary, so he assures him, "'m okay. Can handle it."

Dean grins widely down at his brother, clasps his face between both hands, and says, "Know you can, Sammy. I'm gonna do all the work, anyways, make you feel so good."

Dean begins to slide down Sam's body, and Sam doesn't want to let go, keeps his hands on Dean the whole while, until eventually they're carding through Dean's hair. As Dean makes his way down he places open-mouthed kisses along Sam's skin, crushes his lips against Sam and slides them down.

At the place where Sam's hip meets pelvis, Dean dips his tongue and presses. He doesn't let up either, keeps his tongue on Sam as he makes his way. Sam can't hold back the little half-whimpers escaping his lips, and doesn't even want to, letting them serve as confirmation that this is alright, more than alright, perfect.

Dean's tongue weaves further, lapping where leg meets abdomen, and down. Down all the way past Sam's balls, because Dean purposely skipped his dick, and Sam knows it's because Dean wants to go slow.

Dean's tongue eases up, tiny little licks that make Sam squirm. But when he finally makes it to Sam's hole, he doesn't relent. A firm smoothing of Dean's tongue and then entrance, and Sam can feel his muscles flutter, clamping down.

"Dean," Sam says. And Dean groans a response, the vibrations dragging a corresponding sound out of Sam.

Dean isn't the only one who wants to make this last, Sam does just as much, but Dean's tongue in him is too great of a reminder that he needs more. "More, Dean. _Please_."

Dean cannot ever say no to Sam, and soon he pulls away. Sam feels him return with a slicked finger, feels his muscles give to Dean.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. Yes."

Dean takes that for the affirmative it is and pushes on, all the way in. Sam's breathing becomes even heavier, but after just a couple moments it levels out again, and he says, "Yes."

Sam knows that Dean knows him, and though it's been years since they've been together like this, Dean knows what Sam wants, what he needs. Dean pulls out his index finger and pushes back in with two, unable to pull his mouth away just yet, sucking around his fingers, little kisses where their bodies meet.

Sam can feel his muscles relax, lets them get used to Dean inside, before bearing down.

A dangerous grin slides across Dean's face as he curves his fingers just so, remembers exactly how Sam's body is formed, and he pulls out then pushes back in.

In and out, Dean's fingers hitting that spot with every thrust, and on every other he twists, dragging out the sensation.

"Now, Dean," Sam says through heavy breaths. "Come on. I'm good."

"Damn right, you're good," Dean says. But Sam has to wait one more minute, because as Dean pulls out his fingers he replaces them once more with his tongue.

"Mmm," Dean says.

"Ready, Dean."

Dean levers up, and he looks at Sam, at his face, pleased. Sam is wrecked, he knows that. He's sweating – so much for the hypothermia, perhaps this was the perfect treatment – and his mouth is open, parted and panting, small little huffs of air blowing up the dampened tufts of hair in his eyes.

Staring up at Dean like this, Sam's in awe of his eyes, so dark with heat, the green-brown of his irises almost completely obscured by the darkness of his pupils. Sam doesn't think he's ever seen Dean look more beautiful.

He could look at Dean this way all day, but he has to stop when Dean gets up on to his knees, sliding his hands under Sam's legs and pulling them farther apart. The fingers of one hand grip harder into Sam's thigh as Dean makes to reach down for his bag with the other, to get necessary lubrication, but Sam says, "No. Do it now, Dean."

Dean’s eyes flash with want, and he complies, repositioning himself and lining up. The head of Dean's dick presses close to Sam and he can feel his muscles fluttering, anxious, and he says, "Dean."

And that's it. Dean pushes in. The head of Dean's cock is engulfed by Sam, and it feels like more, better, than Sam had remembered. Dean presses further, slowly, and Sam cannot believe how much he missed being _full_ of Dean.

When Dean's grounded himself full deep in Sam, he stops, hovers over Sam and searches his face. Sam's chest is heaving, heavy, and he nods. Dean pulls back, slowly, careful not to move too fast, not to lose himself completely.

After a moment of brutal waiting, only the tip still sheathed, Dean relents and slams forward.

Sam gasps, as though he'd forgotten. As though his memory couldn't possibly hold on to exactly how amazing this was, how amazing this _is_. Sam is full, so full of Dean, and it's like his body didn't know how much it was missing.

The pace had been steady, slow, since they began, but, now, neither of them can hold back. The in and out speeds, Sam lifting his hips to meet Dean's every thrust.

Too much, it's too much, and Dean collapses on Sam. Sam resumes his hold, fingers clasped down so firm on Dean's shoulders he swears he can feel the blood drawing to the surface, can picture the bruising that will show tomorrow. He's glad Dean is so close, pinioned on top of him, he can taste Dean, opens his mouth to Dean's neck and latches on.

Dean's hips are pounding into Sam at a near violent rhythm, and neither of them are going to last much longer, not like this.

Dean's pressed so close that Sam's dick is tight between them. The friction of Dean's stomach and his own is enough, more than enough. "Dean," Sam says, "I'm–"

"Me too," Dean says, his voice threadbare.

One more push, one more perfect drag of Dean's cock in Sam, of Dean's abs on him, and Sam's gone. Come surges out of him, between them, and his whole body tightens, clenches. Dean follows him down that instant, Sam's body clamping Dean tight and Dean reciprocally pumping him full. Dean's dick pulsing in him pulls even more out, prolongs his orgasm, and the same for Dean, the clench-tight contractions of Sam's ass bleeding him dry.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean says. He can't collapse any further, already laid out flat on Sam, but he lets go, pulls out slowly, gently, hesitant to break the contact, and rolls to Sam's side.

If Sam thought he was wrecked before, he was mistaken. Or now he's more than wrecked – he's ruined, absolutely debauched. Ridden with sweat and come, rosy-faced and panting, eyes lidded and chest heaving. And Dean is in the exact same state.

Sam's warm, his body no longer shivering from the cold but shivering through the aftershocks, the afterglow.

Dean reaches over, splays his hand across Sam's chest, and Sam can feel the steady beat of his heart under the tips of Dean's fingers. The beat is no longer slow, no longer impeded by the cold that had overtaken his body, but instead it's increased. He looks at Dean, their eyes meeting in agreement, acknowledgement of the recognition of the lub-dub thump of a heart sped by sex, and they both let out whooshes of exhales in relief.

Dean pulls himself even closer, forms his body tight next to Sam's, and that's more than good with him, because he isn't ready to let this closeness go either. Dean's body is hot next to his own now-warmed skin – they've beat it – but the weight of Dean next to him still feels like a refuge.

"Sam," Dean says, and Sam takes it as a benediction.

He closes his eyes, unable to meet Dean's gaze, because he is so overcome. But he raises his hand to Dean's and squeezes their fingers tight.

Sam can deal with this.

He's sure he won't stop all of his worrying, he's sure he'll still be plagued by his guilt and his regret. But Sam has Dean back, now, their bond restored and all forgiven. When he works himself up too much, he can go to Dean, and Dean will talk him down just like he always has.

He doesn't really want to admit it, but Dean is right: they started this mess together, and they'll end it together. And now that they're back to where they haven't been for years, realigned, things won't be as bad, they'll get better. Together, Sam and Dean will figure it out.

  
~end

[to the masterpost](http://lavishsqualor.livejournal.com/21224.html)   



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